Time Doesn't Heal All Wounds
by MockingJay0221
Summary: There is no way John would let himself believe that dying confession no way he would believe his dearest friend was a fraud. So, while most would scoff at the name Sherlock Holmes, John would celebrate it. It was the only way he could keep him alive. Post-Reichenbach


**Hello all! I know I have been gone for a long while, but I'm back and hope to post at least something on a regular basis. This has been sitting in my documents for a couple months, as I have been struggling with it. After a massive rewrite, I have finally finished it, and I am happy to present to you all.**

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**1 Hour**

1 hour after the great Sherlock Holmes had hit the ground and John stood outside the morgue door where Molly Hooper had just declared him dead. John remembered the girl's trembling hands as she held the knife against the man she had impossibly and desperately loved. It was a wonder she could finish the autopsy. John made a bit of a fuss when he learned that Molly was being forced to complete the procedure, but before he exchanged a few choice words, Molly quietly assured him that she had insisted. It puzzled John, but he assumed it was some sort of closure. Although he didn't see why the autopsy was at all necessary; everyone had seen Sherlock's bloody corpse lying on the wet sidewalk just outside the doors of St. Bart's Hospital. It had been quite a scene, one that would no doubt be splattered across the front of every newspaper the following morning. John can see the stories now: "Fraudulent Detective Jumps to His Death". John wasn't sure what Moriarty had done to make Sherlock jump off that roof, but all he knew was he got a completely indecent amount of satisfaction seeing the ghastly corpse wheeled in right after Sherlock's. Moriarty hadn't totally won after all. He was declared dead soon after: gunshot wound to the head, presumably self-inflicted, though that part perplexed John despite it all. John still stood feet away from Sherlock's body, trying, _desperately_ trying, to comprehend what he had seen. He was looking into Sherlock's eyes one moment then staring at his body hitting the pavement the next. He had refused to believe it; in fact, he _still_ refused to believe it. He closed his eyes as tightly as possible, tried to envision his not quite perfect paradise inside Compartment 221B, tried to wake up from this impossible nightmare, but with a count of three little numbers, _one… two… three…_, he slowly opened his eyes and found himself right where he was, standing outside the morgue door with his dearest friend dead on the other side.

**1 Week**

1 week after the great Sherlock Holmes had hit the ground and John found himself standing in front of a newsstand shaking his head. John had been right when he predicted the event would hit the papers the day after the fall, but he hadn't expected the publicity to last so long. He still found himself met with the headline "Suicide of Fake Genius" every time he passed a newsstand. He hadn't expected that he himself would be at the center of publicity either. Even now he could feel wondering and pitying eyes boring into him, and he was sure Baker Street was still flooded with reporters, not that he had checked. Mrs. Hudson had called him a few days ago worried that she couldn't step a foot outside the door without being simply bombarded. He figured they would check to see if he was even still living there, but it shouldn't be surprising they were idiots, if he could bring himself to care. When He realized he had been staring for longer than expected, John sighed and purchased a paper. He knew Sherlock had never cared about publicity, but he always had, and frankly, he was curious. He opened the paper and was assaulted with harsh, brazen, and entirely untrue accusations directed at the friend he held most dear. He could feel the fury rising until his eyes settled on the most unsettling phrase of them all: "No one could be that clever." Those words, those awful words, condemning the only thing Sherlock had cared most about in the world. Both Sherlock's name and body had been defiled, and they dare take away the only thing he had left, the only thing that Sherlock would want to transcend his lifetime: his intellect. _No_, John thought, he wouldn't let them do that. Those six hateful little words could only be met with one response. "No one could be that clever", well, _he could. _Sherlock could. There is no way John would let himself believe that dying confession no way he would believe his dearest friend was a fraud. So, while most would scoff at the name Sherlock Holmes, John would celebrate it. It was the only way he could keep him alive.

**1 Month**

1 month after the great Sherlock Holmes had hit the ground and John stood beside Mrs. Hudson in front of his grave. He stood there holding himself together when all he wanted to do was fall apart. He could hear Mrs. Hudson beside him, but he couldn't focus on the words without feeling his own rage, confusion, and despair threatening to bubble up to the surface. He tried to be respectful, but it was too much, and the next time he looked over, Mrs. Hudson was gone. The headstone was carved with neat precise letters. Sherlock Holmes was all it read, no dates, no messages, no signs to show he had really lived at all. Sherlock probably would have liked it, but for a genius he really could be an idiot. He always said "Alone keeps me safe", but John knew he really didn't believe it. Sherlock was surrounded with people who loved him, who believed in him, and he knew it too, though sometimes he was too stupid to see those same signs in himself. He continually hurt the people he cared about and the people who cared about him, and it was so incredibly infuriating, but that was Sherlock and honestly as bad as he was John knew his life was better for having known him. And with that thought, John finally found the courage to say what he had always needed to say. Sherlock wasn't there to hear it, it was too late for that, but John steeled his eyes on the headstone and talked. He just talked for what seemed like forever, though it was only a few minutes, but at some point that talking had turned into pleading as John voiced what he had been hoping since the man had hit the ground: "Please just don't be dead." John knew it was hopeless, that no pleading would bring him back, that he was well and truly dead. He was now alone, and he sure didn't feel protected.

**3 Months**

3 months after the great Sherlock Holmes had hit the ground and John sighed as he opened the door to Compartment 221B for the first time since the fall. He hadn't been able to find anything else for a reasonable price, and certainly not a suitable flat mate. His choice was decided when Mrs. Hudson offered to pay Sherlock's half of the rent until he got on his feet. John found himself at Bart's the next day begging for any open position they could give him. He was relieved when they said yes, though he was sure Molly had just felt sorry for him when she said she could use an extra set of hands. But nonetheless he found himself moving back into Compartment 221B with work scheduled for the next day. He had promised to meet Molly for lunch once he got settled, but judging by the gut-wrenching fit of despair he felt upon opening the door, that was going to take a while. John's eyes settled first on the bullet-pierced smiley face Sherlock had created in a fit of boredom, then they moved to the lab equipment still set out on the kitchen table waiting for an experiment, and finally on the violin. He had grown to hate that stupid violin Sherlock played all hours of the day, but now met with silence, John craved its sound. Sherlock was everywhere, and it was just too much. John could feel it bubbling up again, that despair that he hadn't felt since that day at the gravestone, and the crippling emotion brought him to his knees. He soon found himself on the ground sobbing and sobbing, something he hadn't done since Sherlock died, something he had barely done ever. But here he was spiraling out of control into a hole from which he might not return. He knew he was going to cancel his plans until he turned to see Molly standing in the open door, her mouth frozen in a small 'o'. He could see the tears in her eyes, and realized she had been crying, watching him crying. He was struggling for words, struggling for an explanation, when he found a small pair of arms wrapped around him, and comforting whispering in his ear. "I understand," she says, and John realizes that his isn't the only life Sherlock has touched. This small, vulnerable girl had her life torn apart by that man, but she loved him. She loved him more than he really should have been loved, and John suddenly feels as if that gaping hole left by Sherlock's absence wasn't quite so big.

**1 Year**

1 year since the great Sherlock Holmes had hit the ground, and John was sitting across from his beautiful girlfriend with a genuine smile across his face. John had been reluctant when Molly had offered to introduce them, judging by his past dating experience, and his persistent unhappiness, but he soon came to realize that Mary Morstan was in a league all her own. Molly had mentioned they met in Uni and bonded over their love of medicine. Mary had left straight afterwards to join Doctors Without Borders, which she had been involved with for at least a decade, but she and Molly had recently reconnected when Mary returned to London to take up an empty position at Bart's. John, however, began to recognize that Mary was more than a brilliant doctor. She kept him on his toes with her sharp wit and sarcastic nature, and never failed to make him laugh. He and Molly often consulted her when they found themselves with an unusually puzzling autopsy, and 95 percent of the time she found something they had missed. Mary Morstan had become a unique form of therapy for John, and had done much work to fill that still slightly empty hole created by Sherlock. John found that he was generally happy, rather than generally unhappy, and found that if he was with Mary long enough he forgot his sadness completely. After a few months, he found he could talk to her about Sherlock, and found himself able to recount happy memories with a smile. Now, John found himself heartily laughing at Mary's jokes about their waiter's several blunders of the night, and he absently thought he finally found a woman of which Sherlock might have approved.

**2 Years**

2 years after the great Sherlock Holmes had hit the ground, John found he was truly happy, truly happy indeed. He had been with Mary for almost a year now, and he couldn't remember another woman who had ever made him this content. As happy as he was, however, he couldn't help but feel like something was missing. He knew it had to do with Sherlock, as much as he had moved on, but that persistent little hole in his heart just wouldn't completely go away. Honestly, he missed going on cases, he missed the thrill of the chase, discovering his own battlefield in London. He missed Sherlock. Despite all this, he was still happy, as happy as he could get in his circumstances, and most of that was thanks to Mary. He nervously patted his jacket pocket and felt the outline of the ring box right where he had put it. He had made reservations at the nicest restaurant he could afford, and expected the night to go perfectly without a single hitch. He sat at the table, repeatedly checking his pocket to make sure the box was still there. Every time the door opened he looked up with anxiety, until it had become a habit. The next time he looked up, however, he recognized who came through, and it wasn't Mary. Dark ruffled hair, piercing blue eyes, too-tight clothes, blue scarf, Belstaff coat. He must be really losing it. But then he realized other people were staring too, mouths open, eyes wide. It can't be him. But John knew it was. How many times had John thought it was a ruse? One last trick? One last spectacle? Every day since the fall. It really was him walking through that door like he hadn't been dead yesterday, like he hadn't torn apart John's and Molly's and Mrs. Hudson's lives. And then he got angry. _Really_ angry. He felt the rage rising, his face flush, his veins pulsing. And finally Sherlock spoke. "Hello, John." _Hello John?_ Now John was _furious_. Sherlock didn't even have the decency to explain himself, to _apologize_. And suddenly that building rage let loose. "Two bloody years you've been gone and that's all you have to say to me! For two bloody years I thought my best friend was dead, and you never thought to give me a call, and say 'Hey, mate, I know you thought I was dead, but SURPRISE, I'm not.'" John could feel people staring but he couldn't stop. Everything he had felt for the last two years had come rushing to the surface and tumbling out his mouth. "No, instead you show up here at my bloody proposal dinner, and muck everything up! Do you ever stop and think, Sherlock? Do you ever stop and think about the people around you? Do you ever stop and think about anyone but yourself? No, of course not, because you're Sherlock bloody Holmes and no one is smarter than you! Well, guess what! You can't just waltz back into your life; you're going to have to earn it back!" John realized his hands had curled into fists and felt his right hand moving against his better judgment to connect with Sherlock's jaw. And he had hit him hard judging by the look on Sherlock's face. But Sherlock didn't punch back, and he didn't say anything: he just stood there with a strange look-was that hurt?-in his eyes. John couldn't stand to look at him anymore, so he walked out without waiting to let Sherlock stop him. He gave Mary a quick call giving her a truly pitiful excuse for cancelling, but he couldn't talk about it without screaming. He collapsed on the bed into a restless sleep, filled with nightmares of Sherlock falling over and over again in a number of increasingly brutal ways. He could feel the despair rising, the despair that always followed the rage, and he could feel the tears falling once again for the first time in over a year, and just when he was about to lose it, his thoughts were interrupted by the slight buzz of his phone. It could only have been one person at this hour, and against his better judgment, John opened it, desperate for an explanation.

_I'm sorry, John_

_-SH_

Those three little words changed something in John. And though he was still angry, so incredibly angry, it seemed that missing piece was no longer missing, and he could finally feel that persistent little hole in his heart slowly filling up.

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**Thanks for reading and please leave a review and let me know what you think!**

**XO, MockingJay0221**


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